


you love me (but you don't know it yet)

by ackermom



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22175191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: Five times Jack and Bitty were alone together, before they were together forever.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 2
Kudos: 92





	you love me (but you don't know it yet)

**Author's Note:**

> some good ole zimbits

i.

He catches sight of a black jacket disappearing around the corner. He spins on his heel and he follows, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum when he breaks into a jog. Ahead, light from the corridor spills out onto the pavement in a thick curtain; just as the door closes, he spies a pair of dress shoes leaving the light. Bitty's soles squeal as he dashes forward and throws himself against the heavy door to fling it open.

"Hey, Jack!" he shouts. 

The sidewalk is painted in triangles of dark and light. Shadows from the building, white beams from the lampposts illuminating the path towards the parking lot. On the edge of the darkness, Jack's pace slows. His back to Bitty, he is just a figure, halfway out of the shadows, and as the door slams again, he takes another step towards the concrete stairs.

"Wait up!" Bitty calls, rushing forward. 

Jack stops. The night is cold, and the wind hits Bitty suddenly, sending a shiver up his knees and across his shoulders. He tries to keep his teeth from chattering as he shuffles towards Jack, arms wrapped around his body to keep himself warm.

"'Cause um," he continues. He stops just before Jack. Or— just behind him. His back is still to Bitty, his dark suit a shadow in the cold night. Bitty shivers. "I just wanted to say again, good game."

If Jack hears him, he gives no indication. He says nothing, his shoulders still, his feet planted firmly on the concrete. The wind rushes over him as if he were a statue. Bitty falters, his mouth halfway open, wondering if talking to Jack will ever be less like making conversation with a brick wall. He rubs the sides of his arms, knees knocking together, and smiles despite himself. He unhooks his arms from around himself and rubs his fingers for warmth.

"I wanted to say, thank—"

"Bittle."

The night hangs over them. Bitty stands, frozen, shivering beneath a streetlamp spotlight. He holds his hands in midair, suddenly unable to move, and as he watches in silence, Jack gives the most imperceptible turn of his head. Just enough to see that Bitty is still standing behind him, stuck there.

"It was a lucky shot," is all Jack says. He is at the bottom of the stairs before Bitty even hears him. 

ii.

"Bittle," he hears as the rest of the team skates off. His name echoes among the noise of the stadium: ice, sticks, and the crowd, a buzzing so loud that Bitty spins around for a moment, distracted, before he comes back around to face the C at his eye level.

Jack's eyes are not on him, and he nudges Bitty with his shoulder. "If you get the puck, wheel around back door and send it to me between the dots—"

Bitty follows his icy blue gaze down the rink. His stick is the only thing steadying him on the ice, and he clenches his free hand in its glove to keep his fingers from shaking as he realizes what Jack is talking about. The D-man on the opposite side, his blue-gold jersey stretched wide across his broad shoulders. He's twice Bitty's size.

"You can get past that D-man," Jack finishes. He speaks quickly, in low tones, fingers moving subtly to point out the play so only Bitty can see.

"But that's the same guy who knocked the wind out of Holster second period," Bitty says, eyes wide, brow furrowed. He feels Jack look at him. He hopes Jack can't see how much he's shaking. "He's— he's huge... Jack, I don't think I should—"

"Bittle," Jack says again.

There is warmth in his voice. A softness that numbs out everything else: the noise, the crowd, the other team skating in circles around them. Bitty glances up, blinking at Jack. In the quiet moment, he is surprised to find Jack looking back at him. Looking into him with those blue eyes, becoming less icy by the second, and for once, he's smiling. He reaches out, and all Bitty can do is breathe when Jack settles a hand on his shoulder.

"I've got your back," Jack says.

Bitty thinks, for the first time, _I trust you_. He lets out another breath and stifles the quiver in his hands. "O-okay."

iii.

There's a hum in the kitchen that exists nowhere else in the Haus. To Bitty, it's familiar— the rhythm of baking. Of apple peels and oven warmth and hands dusted with flour. It's comfortable, though today, different. Today, he has a guest. It's something he's not accustomed to, especially not at Samwell, to have someone kneading dough by his side. But it's not bad. He finds, in fact, that Jack fits in better than he could have imagined. 

He's half-listening to the conversation, and Jack is half-speaking. His hands are tangled in strips of dough that he's flattened and cut out and rearranged, and Bitty watches over his shoulder with a sly smile as Jack begins laying the lattice over the pie. His hands move gently and awkwardly.

Jack rambles. Something about hockey, something about class. Something about ruining the pie, something that he's repeated at least a dozen times now, and something that Bitty has pushed aside each time, half-hoping that Jack really _will_ ruin the pie and they'll have to do this all over again tomorrow. 

Bitty brushes butter over the mini pies. "You'd play on the west coast? Oh my goodness, that's so far."

"Bittle, I'm messing up your project," Jack says from behind him. "Look at this. It's awful..."

"Stop it," he says without turning his head. He sets the brush aside and heaves the bag of flour into his arms. "I'm sure it's great."

"I have no idea why you're trusting me with this."

"Lemme see—"

"Look—"

He bumps into Jack, flour first. Jack's elbow brushes over his shoulder, latticed pie held carefully over his head, delicately out of the danger zone on its way to seek Bitty's approval. Bitty stares at the small spot of flour he's left on Jack's tee-shirt. He mutters something like an apology.

"Oh, sorry," Jack breathes. He's so close he barely has to speak.

Bitty swallow. "E-excuse you, but my kitchen is no place for checking!" 

He wraps a protective arm around the flour sack, shoving an elbow into Jack's chest as he does. He barely holds back his laughter. Jack just grins at him, pie tin steadied in both hands over his head.

"Your kitchen?"

"Well, _the_ kitchen!" Bitty exclaims. He tries not to giggle. "Now move your big— uhm."

"My big...?"

Bitty uses his only defense. He ducks his head, blushing, and snatches a pinch of flour from the top of the sack, tossing it onto as much of Jack's black tee-shirt as he can. For a moment, the flour just floats in the air. The heat from the oven, the afternoon sunlight, the fresh smell of dough and apples and flour, everywhere. For a moment, it's all he can taste. It's all he feels as he stares through the cloud of flour, meeting Jack's curious eyes.

For a moment, he thinks—

iv. 

In the quiet, Bitty escapes.

He feels like all eyes should be on him. He rises, a single figure, over shadowy bent heads and fingers slipping on knotted laces. He stands without his gear, small again, and maybe that's why he goes unnoticed, padding across the locker room in his sneakers to disappear through the back door. Or maybe, it's because gazes are turned, heads are hung, and though their lips are quiet, there is plenty of noise to cover his footsteps. The scuffle of sticks and metal lockers, paperwork, fingers on phone keyboards, humming showers. In the quiet, there is so much happening, and Bitty knows that's why he has to go.

A cold sweat overcomes him in the hallway. He slips between the streaming crowd of face he doesn't know— security or visitors or otherwise, it doesn't matter to him. He slips by. He follows a trail, tracing steps through the backrooms of the stadium; he recognizes none of it, but it is so familiar that he breaks into a run.

He finds Jack on the loading dock. 

v.

"Oh, well." Bitty presses his lips together, forcing himself to smile. "I guess that's it, isn't it?"

Jack is smiling down at him. Beneath the warm lakeside breeze, he is fresh-faced and dewey-eyed, looking both younger and older than Bitty has ever seen him. He says, "Yeah," with a restless breath and mirrors Bitty's thoughts, reaching out to wrap his arms around Bitty in a hug.

In those arms, Bitty closes his eyes. "Bye, Jack." 

"Bye, Bittle," Jack says in his ear. His hands close on Bitty's back, squeezing him as the wind blows over them. Bitty feels the crisp collar of Jack's shirt beneath his hand, the brush of soft hair on the nape of his neck; he balls his fist up, squeezes his eyes shut tighter, and holds on for as long as he thinks he can. "It's been great playing with you."

"Jack, I..." Bitty mutters when he pulls back. He trails off, staring into the blue of Jack's tie. "I..."

He swallows and fumbles with the tie. "I-I guess the next time I'll see you will be on TV, huh!" 

"What?" Jack laughs. 

Bitty doesn't look up; he just tightens the tie and lets his fingers linger over the fabric a little longer, soft beneath his touch, not like ice at all.

"Bittle, I'll drive up before the season starts."

"Oh, of course!" He lets go. "Well, you get on outta here before you make me late for my flight!" 

Jack's voice is softer. "Hah. See you, Bittle."

Bitty steps onto the grass with a little wave over his shoulder; and the crunch beneath his dress shoes brings everything crashing down around him. Suddenly, the lakeside is full of people. Chatter and camera clicks and caps swishing in the air. The world is a maze— he is surrounded by bodies and brick, looming over him. In an instant, everything is different, and Bitty has to give himself credit for making it to the sidewalk before he starts crying. 

+

_Bzzzt! Bzzzt!_

"That's... uh. That's my phone. I should..."

Bitty opens his eyes. Jack is there, just before him. In his arms. Lips inches away, breath warm on Bitty's face. His hair, pushed back, coming undone. 

"Oh," Bitty says. Still stirring, half-awake. Breathless.

"...I gotta go," Jack murmurs. 

"Okay."

They find their way to each other, Jack's hands on his elbows, Jack's eyes gazing down on him. 

"I gotta go, but I'll text you, okay?"

"Okay," Bitty says, thinking _just one more kiss_. 

Jack kisses him again— another silent, tender touch, another moment that will last forever— and then he is halfway out the door. "I'll text you," he promises.

"Okay," Bitty breathes. 

His robes disappear down the hallway. Bitty stands, staring, phone in his hand, as he listens to Jack's shoes tap down the stairs and across the entrance. The front door of the Haus opens, and when it shuts again, it's as if all of his breaths come back to him, rushing up the stairs to flood his body and flush him with life. He stumbles back into a chair.

_Bzzt!_


End file.
